


Luna Nova

by dehautdesert



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Alternate Ending, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Fix-It, Ghosts, Headcanon, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mental Instability, Mind Rape, Mindfuck, Multiple Personalities, Psychological Torture, Religion, Suicide Attempt, Violence, what am i even doing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dehautdesert/pseuds/dehautdesert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS FOR THE SERIES FINALE</p><p>Riario is resolute in his purpose as the Minotaur; the Angel of Death who kills according to the will of God, but someone is working to undermine the goals of the Labyrinth and the truth of the Book of Leaves lies at the centre of the riddle. It must be the Artista's doing, somehow.</p><p>Perhaps he's the reason so many people who should be dead seem to still be wandering around...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moonrise

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Epiphany, everyone! (I'm sure it's still the 6th somewhere...) as my gift to you I bring this fic I wrote when I should have been writing Traumen that was supposed to be half as long as it is. You're welcome.
> 
> Anyway, I saw the series finale and... yeah. That happened. So, in response, this happened: (I would prefer for it all to be a single document, but my browser doesn't like chapters over a certain length, so two chapters). If you don't understand the ensuing mindfuckery, there'll be notes at the end too. If you still don't understand it... I guess it means I suck. But ask me questions anyway, and I'll babble some more. ;)

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

His hands are stretched out to the sides, wrists encircled with biting leather straps, and it takes him a while to realise he's upright, and that his eyes had been open the whole time. The salt from the dried tears on his cheeks pull the skin.

It's cold. He can hear fire, but turning his eyes towards the noise is only possible so far as the metal hooks beneath the lids allow; all he sees is the shadow of the flames.

And it's difficult to breathe, with the restraints around his chest.

"Father?" he whispers. His mouth and throat are dry; barely a whisper leaves them, and he doesn't know which of his many 'fathers' he's asking for.

There's also a drip somewhere in the cave. And voices--

"... cannot be allowed back into the Vatican in this state yet, surely?"

"The prize we have won, Brother, is only all the sweeter for how ferocious the struggle to win it was. When we put it back into the false pope's presence, it will be as though it never left. Only here, in our sanctuary on the path, will his reborn nature be revealed."

The false pope?

But he'd killed the false pope. Wrapped his hands around the man's neck and squeezed, just like he'd done all those years ago...

Ah, but the isn't the Church itself false? Yes, he remembers. They're speaking of the other, who'd slithered back into his old seat with his twin no longer there to deny it to him, on the run from his failure at Otranto. For the sake of God's plan, it must be necessary to keep him in that place for now, where only the two of them know the truth.

The one that is the false pope, and the One that are the Labyrinth.

"But _she_ escaped. And what if she saw him here? Or if the Medici fool let it slip—"

Then God's angel of death would kill her—whoever they're talking about. For some reason thoughts of his wretched cousin come into his head, though she was cut down by an arrow at Otranto; an instrument of God and the Artista's vengeance against the Mithraian heretics.

He supposes she is in heaven then. And perhaps they will reconcile there; he thinks he'd like that even if she was a self-absorbed whimpering whore.

Is he going to go to heaven, though? Somehow it doesn't seem right. But then, as long as it is God's will then it doesn't really matter where he goes when he dies.

Perhaps he won't even do that. As long as it is God's will.

"Shh; he's awake, Brother. How are you feeling, Girolamo?"

He smiles as he comes face to face with the Architect, and the Physician who'd died at the hands of the Mother of Florence in her little den of sin. It must be God's will too that he appears here now.

"Am I still dreaming?" he asks them, just to check.

The architect's smile becomes more fond, he reaches towards his face and brushes his thumb across one of the tears that are falling even now.

"Dreams are where the mysteries of the divine are revealed to us, Brother," he says gently. The scar Girolamo had once seen on that wrist is strangely gone. "You must keep dreaming, until you find the Truth."

"Yes, Father," he says.

He feels absolutely fine.

 

*~*~*

 

"Da Vinci may have brought us victory at Otranto, but we cannot ignore Florence's misbehaviour out of some misplaced notion of gratitude!"

The false pope barks this pronouncement out at his inner council the morning after Riario returns from his latest guidance session with the Architect. It's amazing how much better he is at impersonating his twin than the other twin had been playing at him.

Not that his father had really even made the effort. No one had guessed the truth either way; blinded by the worldliness of the Church in its current state. He almost wishes his uncle would give up the pretence and be himself for that reason; no one will probably make comment about it, and Riario won't feel like any moment the man is going to turn around and hit him.

He can't remember if his uncle is still angry at him. It doesn't matter though, as absolution from him would have been as worthless as the air it travelled on.

Riario doesn't need absolution from him. He doesn't need absolution at all. He'll do the will of God with every sinner ended on his sword, and when it's over he will weep with gratitude to be wherever the Almighty decides to send him.

Everything happens according to His will. Everything is good. Every drop of blood he spills in his sacred duty serves to glorify the greatness of—

"Nephew?"

Sixtus breaks into his thoughts as one who has been trying to get his attention for some time, and he sounds ever so slightly nervous about it.

"Forgive me, Holy Father." _Your forgiveness is fucking meaningless!_ "I was considering our Florentine dilemma. It does occur to me that, considering da Vinci's talent for devastation, we should not approach the matter lightly."

"Talent for devastation!" echoes Sixtus with a roar. He really is good at this. "We would not have had to suffer his talents, as you call them, if you had done what we had asked of you and slit the bastard sodomite's blaspheming throat!"

"The opportunity, I fear—"

"I don't want to hear it! There will be no more attempts to sway that demon to our cause; you will see to it that he meets his maker by the end of the month!"

It's difficult not to laugh at the thought, but he understands why Sixtus wants the man dead. He'll send a few cursory assassins to that end; men he can afford to lose who won't know who it is who hired them.

Actually, that makes an excellent method of destroying those who commit the sin of murder—just send them after da Vinci and wait for the bodies of the damned to pile up.

The long daggers at his sides suddenly feel white-hot against his thighs. He relishes the feeling, welcomes it, wonders if it means another sinner's heart is beating for them, waiting for the release from their sin, waiting... for him to _save_ them.

He's at the door to his room. The time he spends not in abject service to God is wasted, and so his mind discards it casually, he no longer cares for some small thing like not remembering how he got to this place.

Unlike the Labyrinth, this one was not so difficult a path to fill in for himself.

On the other side of the door, Clarice Orsini is waiting for him.

This is a little more difficult to figure out, as she's dead, and has been ever since he snapped her neck and left her tied to a cross in Sixtus' bath with her side pierced as Christ's had been. But he accepts it as the will of God and all is well.

Her eyes are fearful and determined as they behold him, which he supposes is understandable. He might very well have the same look should it ever come time for him to come face to face with his murderer. Killer. Redeemer.

She wears simple clothing, though; that is more appropriate. And it looks like she's been travelling.

Between her fingers she holds an iron pin, it's head a Cross of Lorraine with a skull embossed in the centre of the lower bar; one of several specific designs he has familiarised his servants with so that they may let his agents in to see him to impart what they have learned. In Clarice Orsini's hand, it is quite clearly a sign of the divine.

But he doesn't quite understand it yet.

"Signora," he greets her. No need to be rude, after all.

"Count Riario."

He tilts his head. "Did you have a message for me?"

In contrast to how he might expect a divine messenger to act, Clarice sighs with exasperation, and annoyance clouds the fear in her eyes, though she still turns her head from side to side as though afraid they might be watched—perhaps via the tricks of the Sons of Mithras. The Turk and the Seer are dead, but who's to say they were the only two to possess those unholy abilities?

"If you mean do I have the information you require, then I have that to an extent at least; but now I need you to do something for me."

There's desperation in her voice she's trying to hide. He's not quite certain how he's meant to act here—does he even have the ability to intercede on her behalf? He assumes this is her Purgatory... but the Architect has criticised the idea of indulgences, so he isn't sure what he could do for her even if he had the inclination.

He feels like he does.

(have the inclination).

What the information she has for him might be, he has no idea.

"Do you?" he replies.

She takes a deep breath, and withdraws a folded message from the folds of her cloak.

"The financial situation is getting desperate," she tells him. "And my husband is still dealing with the fallout of the Naples venture. I need you to either find some way to get the money back or take pressure from Naples off us. And we need the excommunication officially rescinded."

It's... heart-warming, he supposes, that she still cares enough for her philandering, usurious husband to plead for his well-being from the grave like this. Even in Purgatory, it seems, the souls of men must struggle to understand the will of the Creator.

He had thought Sixtus _had_ rescinded the excommunication though.

Oh well, he'll remind him to do that later. Like an ever re-balancing scale, Clarice's annoyance is swallowed up by fear again.

"Why are you just staring at me like that?" she asks him.

He can't help but feel sympathy for her. The hardship he'd had to go through to reach understanding still haunts him—quite literally, even in his waking hours, and it's so strange that even though he is one with so many others now he still feels so alone.

As the silence drags on, he decides to throw her a bone.

"What is the information you have for me?" he asks.

She closes her eyes as if in pain.

"I know you didn't want me to come here," she says. "I know you wanted me to find Sophia—that's going to take some time though."

Sophia is da Vinci's sister, and Riario assumes the Artista has her well-protected. He doesn't remember why he's looking for her, but it makes a kind of sense after only a moment's thought. She is but a young girl, after all, and if she has even half as much talent as her brother they might win her over with half as much effort.

It soothes the ache in his heart that longs to perform compassionate acts, to think he could save da Vinci's sister for him. The Artista had tried so hard, after all.

Clarice continues, "But I need assurances that my family will be safe. I want a home to go back to when this is over, for _God's_ sake."

All at once he hears the hint of tears the Signora fights back down most admirably, but he doesn't understand her meaning.

"Home, Signora?" he replies. "You have no Earthly home, and there is yet another woman in your husband's bed. But I will see the excommunication is rescinded."

He reaches for the letter. She flinches back, but not fast enough that his fingertips don't close around their quarry, and she doesn't resist when he takes the message, stepping back from him instead.

"Wait—" she tells him.

But his eyes fall on the seal that holds the paper closed, and there is a lion's head in the red wax staring back at him.

 

*~*~*

 

_Time is a river. The river rushes past them, echoing off the walls of the cave. They are sitting on a small island in the middle of it, and the light is coming in from somewhere he can't tell._

_Slowly, Leonardo turns his mad and maddening eyes away from his and to the one other object on the island with them._

_A deep crimson shroud sways in the wind, draped over this thing. The Artista reaches for it._

_"I have an idea," he says. He doesn't smile, but seems to be asking to be trusted._

_And Riario does. But he doesn't want to._

_"You mustn't," he objects, as those miraculous hands reach out for the shroud. "Please... Artista..."_

_Leonardo takes no notice. At the same time, he looks back at Riario, and into him, as he pulls away the fabric._

_Beneath the material that splashes to the ground and turns the river red, there is a mirror._

 

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

He is still in his room, but it is night, and his hands and sleeves and the front of his shirt are drenched with blood that even dries on his skin where it head spurted on his neck, like those tears had done.

In front of him a wide bowl of clear, lukewarm water sits; and the light from the candles flickers on the water's moving surface.

He must cleanse himself.

First he removes his shirt; some servant will dispose of it and not ask questions—as he must not ask questions. He is the Angel of Death and everything he does is God's will.

He is... cold.

And he is not alone.

"Should I even ask, Brother?"

Where his room connects to a secret passageway that leads into the underground tunnel network, the spectre of Carlo de Medici leans against the wall, smirking with just as much unwarranted self-importance as he'd had before da Vinci had drowned him in a pool of mud.

Carlo had been One with the Labyrinth, true, but his incompetence had put them all on the brink of destruction so it's no surprise to Riario that he too must suffer Purgatory by assisting the Angel of Death.

This logic doesn't explain the presence of the Physician (although really; what idiot wears a mask he can't see properly out of to stalk his prey?) but then, seeing him in the cave during guidance might not have been real.

Riario doesn't really let things like that bother him anymore. He picks up the cloth that has been provided for him and dips it in the water, watching the tendrils of blood branch out from his hand beneath the surface. Lifting the cloth to his neck to wash away those dried remnants, he waits for Carlo to say something else.

"You've caused us a lot of trouble already," is what the ghost says, annoyed at having been ignored, apparently. "If you expose us by way of your bloodthirsty appetite for carnage then our shot at defeating the Sons of Mithras goes up in smoke. They will get the Book you've hunted for all your life, and they will destroy everything."

"I'm not worried about the Sons of Mithras now," Riario mutters. Al-Rahim is dead, and he keeps a close eye on Sixtus to make sure he makes no more of his confounded games.

Guarding the world from him even as he appears to be doing the reverse.

And who is Carlo's ghost to bring it up with him anyway? Other than no different than Carlo when he was alive. His guidance is out of Riario's hands, and in the Lord's, so Riario will make no attempt to rise to the dead man's bait.

Instead he rubs the cloth over his hands and remembers, without meaning to, how da Vinci had cleaned the blood from them back in his workshop... no, further back from that—on the ship. He supposes it doesn't matter when it was; those careful, gentle hands, tricking him with his artist's illusions into thinking for a moment he had the power to make them clean.

Such a magician. It makes Riario smile, hoping that his Artista had left the game of politics forever with the woman's death hanging over him and his quest for his mother forever lost.

He could make such wonderful pictures...

"Well, you should be," snaps Carlo, driving the sound of the waves and his beating heart from Riario's thoughts. "They are our eternal enemy. And somehow, one of the hiding caches of the Medici gold was found and raided. We caught up with it yesterday, but it was already under the protection of the Medici and well on its way to being used to settle things with Naples."

"Hmm? Oh. It's nice something has gone right for your nephew. He's had a terrible time of it."

The disbelief on the man's face as Riario had been carried away by the Florentine crowd had been quite affecting; particularly as he would not have had to suffer so if Riario hadn't thrown himself at him in his misguided state.

_Why didn't he kill me when he had the chance!?_

That abrupt thought makes him clench his fists so fast the cloth feels like it scrapes his hand. _Hush_ , he tells himself. _It was all God's will_.

"The Sword of Damocles is furious!" Carlo insists. "He believes we have been compromised."

Sword of Damocles...

In the Labyrinth Riario had been quick to learn that, as they were One, individual 'names' were only useful so far as those brethren with public personas could use them to their advantage. Otherwise, they do not use their individual names, and do not think of themselves by them either.

Carlo remains 'Carlo' as it is the role that has been most useful to them, but the Architect is but the Architect, and Riario will only be 'Riario' so long as it suits the Labyrinth. In reality, he is only the Angel of Death. The Minotaur.

Neither of whom know the 'Sword of Damocles'. But then, he doesn't need to.

"What would he like me to do?" Riario asks.

With a noise of irritation, Carlo storms over to him, leans over his shoulder and hisses—

"You need to prevent da Vinci from getting a hold of the Book at all costs. If you don't have what it takes to find it first, then you need to distract him from it for as long as possible so someone else can do the deed. The thing with the Turks in Otranto provided good enough inspiration."

"Inspiration?" Riario chuckles a little, although his hands are beginning to feel numb. "Forgive me, Brother, I was clearly not as inspired by that 'thing' as you were. Will we be needing an Armada of our own?"

Or a literal Deus Ex Machina?

"What we need," Carlo spits, as he grabs Riario's arm and yanks it towards him—are ghosts meant to be so solid?—"Is for Florence to be under threat of total annihilation. Da Vinci can't be out looking for the Book if he has to spend all his time protecting his beloved city. In the mean time, the brethren will see what can be accomplished in Constantinople."

Riario isn't entirely certain anything he's just heard made sense, or what Constantinople has to do with anything. He's also pretty sure Lorenzo banished the artist from his so-called Republic for helping cover up Riario's killings.

Or had that only been pending the outcome of Otranto? Perhaps Il Magnifico is wise enough not to provoke the man who killed so many in a single instant.

"You must convince Sixtus to resume his feud with that accursed city. And try not to run away with your tail between your legs this time." He snorts derisively. "Or bow out because you want that shit-stirring bastard inside you as much as your slut cousin did."

Riario laughs right in the man's face—how juvenile he is! Where to start with the hypocrisy in those words; with his using 'bastard' as a pejorative, or with his accusation regarding Riario's motives while the soul of the unborn child he fathered on Clarice waits in Limbo for the rest of eternity?

Carlo pulls away from him in fear when he laughs; much more pronounced than Clarice's had been when she'd come to see him—the coward.

Ignoring him and his pathetic antics, Riario focuses on his cleansing again.

The water has become opaque with blood. It stirs a strange nostalgia in him for the beautiful purity that had been there moments ago, aglow with candlelight. And every little rivulet of bloodied water on his skin now makes him feel more soiled than before. It concentrates in two precise spots where the ugliness becomes quite painful.

The scars on his wrists should have healed more than this by now, he thinks.

 

*~*~*

 

_In the mirror, his reflection is utterly hideous—a monster, a demon, a creation thoroughly corrupted and diseased and ultimately dead._

_But it is Leonardo's reflection that interests him more._

_For it is not him in the mirror, but a woman; a woman with eyes filled with secrets. It takes him a moment of thinking to recognise her, but then he remembers; she's the Artista's mother._

_She speaks to him from the other side of the mirror._

_"We are going to work together, Girolamo," she says, "to prevent the end of all things before its proper time. Leonardo is the Sun, it is his to gaze out on the Earth and illuminate its mysteries. You are the Moon, and it is all you can do to hold back the darkness."_

_"I am the darkness," he tells her._

_"You must suffer," she replies, "so that he may shine."_

_The surface of the mirror ripples and releases a soft, high-pitched whine that drowns out the sound of the river of time. The cave dims; the image in the mirror becomes much brighter, and in it he sees a strange, strange sight; a large round table, the living and the dead both sat at it._

_The King of Naples who had been slaughtered at Otranto bangs an armoured fist on the table and snaps; "I don't care if he's the 'real' pope or not, that wretched fuck brought an army of Turks straight to my doorstep and I want his head on a fucking pike!"_

Oh, Alfonso _, Riario thinks._ Must you too be Purged like this? _He knows his old friend was hardly the picture of Christian piety; but he had died a martyr's death—surely that was enough to bring him into the arms of Christ?_

_"The Turk believes he's working for the Labyrinth," Leonardo—the one sitting at the table, not beside him, says. "Playing the long game to put all of Italy in their hands. I don't know what he'll do now his invasion plans failed—maybe try to replace his twin again?"_

_Riario supposes he's not wrong to think so, having no way of knowing the twins have already been switched back. He's not sure that his uncle has indeed become One, but if the ghost of the Turk is lingering then it's conceivable he'd consider merely living by their sufferance a betrayal._

_It's almost nice to think Leonardo, also, is holding council with the dead._

_It doesn't feel so lonely._

_"Nice to know we get our pick of murderous lunatics to be our spiritual leader," Zoroaster remarks._

_Then the image of da Vinci's murdered father clears his throat and gives Lorenzo de Medici—much less harried-looking than when Riario had last seen him—a pointed look. The banker nods._

_"I have received another message from my wife," he announces. "Her contact in Rome has put her onto the scent of someone called 'Sophia'. Now, I don't know who this person is, Clarice believes her to be in orders somewhere, but apparently she has information relating to the Book of Leaves."_

_It impresses Riario to great degree that neither Leonardo nor Zoroaster make the slightest sign of recognising the name._

_Especially when his words... are so confusing. Hadn't Lupo obliterated that convent? He wouldn't have thought the girl was going to go back there._

_"—I confess I still struggle to attach so much importance to this ancient—"_

_"Wait," Leonardo interrupts him._

_Lorenzo stops, and their Artista looks up from his furrowed concentration and straight through the mirror._

_"I think we're being watched."_

 

*~*~*

 

Riario feels like the currents of the River of Time are rejecting him from their depths with almost alarming regularity; throwing him out of the water to crash back against the waves in different places.

First it's morning. Then it's afternoon. Then two days have passed. Then he finds himself in an alley, drenched in blood and staring up at a cloudy sky that had been clear a moment ago. The heavens open to soothe the wound across his shoulder blade that he doesn't remember getting.

It's all the will of God.

In the Vatican, Sixtus is beginning to get jumpy; watching him, constantly watching him as if expecting an attack, expecting the Labyrinth to decide he has outlived his usefulness and ask Riario to kill him at his earliest convenience. He still tries to maintain the veneer of being his brother, bellowing insults and occasionally slapping him—once even when no one was looking, but he's probably still angry at Riario as well—but every time Riario turns the other cheek and meets his eyes he flinches back in fear. It's really quite pathetic.

One day, dead Lupo Mercuri takes some time out from purging his own sins to speak to him about it.

"Has something happened, between you and the Holy Father?" he asks.

Riario is at his desk, writing. A part of him still thinks he's being somewhat rude; but why should he have to rise for the sake of greeting a dead man?

"Happened?" he says, and doesn't really pay attention.

"Does it have to do with your search for the Book of Leaves?" Lupo prompts.

That Book. It still comes up in conversation far more often than Riario would like it to, it seems, and it almost physically hurts to think about it, because he remembers still how painful it had been to have hope.

"I don't think the Holy Father is interested in that," he says.

"Well, something is going on," Lupo grumbles. There's a hesitation before he speaks again. "Listen. I know what people—what someone in particular has told me about you. But you saved my life, and I haven't forgotten that."

_For all the good it did you,_ Riario thinks.

"All I've ever wanted," continues Lupo, "Is the safety and integrity of the Church. I don't think continuing to wage this pointless war against Florence is going to bring us that—they are well on their way to making peace with Naples, and who should we look to then? Venice?"

The image of Signora Cereta drives into Riario's head like a dagger, pain so sharp he shoots up in his chair. He must not think of her. Why must Lupo focus so much on the world when he is no longer of it? It _hurts._

He must not think of her.

"If this isn't about the Book, then is there still something you have left unfinished with da Vinci? Do you have to put two entire cities at each others' throats to satisfy your self-glorifying rivalry?!"

"I have no quarrel with da Vinci anymore," Riario replies softly. "But he and Florence must be brought to heel. It is the will of God."

Lupo heaves his sigh and brings his hand up to his forehead.

"This can't continue," he says. "There have been too many deaths. Too many souls lost. Do you know what happened to the page?"

Riario knows what page he means. Deep inside him the echo of a voice that might have said _'there's no way anyone could possibly stand against that monstrous invention!_ ' still disturbs his mind sometimes, but he isn't afraid.

He is the sword of God on Earth. Even if the Artista had had the whole Book it wouldn't have mattered.

"I assume da Vinci still has it," he says.

"Da Vinci?!" cries Lupo. Riario is beginning to wonder how much the dead know about what has happened on Earth since they'd departed. He'd thought that was old news. "You mean... he realised how to read it!? But God knows what just one page--!"

" _I_ know," Riario hisses, finally sliding up from the desk like a whip crack to stare at the ghost, who recoils with the same fear all the others have been showing him, as though he could do anything to hurt them now. "I know, and it doesn't matter. I've seen what he can do and it doesn't matter. We are an instrument of the Lord's will, and even the most beautiful, the most inspired, the most glorious of His children is still... only a child before Him."

The fear in Lupo's eyes is pushed down when the Cardinal takes a deep breath, and, resolved, he answers—

"So you _are_ still as obsessed as ever with da Vinci."

Perhaps, Riario thinks, Lupo has been sent here to remind him of the dangers of obsessions. Of false idols. Look how he ended up for his, after all.

Is God that jealous of his longing for the Artista?

He prays that is not so. He cannot will away his love for the man.

Only humans have free will, after all.

At dinner that night he watches the wine swish around his chalice and ignores Cardinal Rodrigo trying to make small talk with the man who carved his heart out. Something like: had he heard the Cardinal's sister had passed away while he'd been on his travels? She and the Count had seemed to take quite a shine to each other that time they'd met at his investiture.

The dark red liquid swirls and swirls in the cup.

 

*~*~*

 

_"Down."_

_The deep, familiar voice that makes his heart ache in his chest reverberates around the cave. It feels like wasps crawling over every part of his skin._

_"Down, down—down to the very depths of Hell. No, he would never believe I'd stoop so low; and that is why I must."_

Father.

_The part of him that wants to run and hide would have been thwarted by the vicious chains that hold him to the wall even if the rest of him longs to see the man again; to be punished for his patricide, to be comforted by his punishments, to beg for forgiveness and to kill the man all over again for every drop of innocent blood he'd drowned in._

_"Think hard," the woman says—Leonardo's mother. She is there too, and if Riario recalls correctly his father had once implied he'd known of her somehow._

_Riario is not exactly sure how his father's feud with his twin had fit into the man's past with the Sons of Mithras. He'd never even mentioned the true pope has been a part of them before he'd played his hand at Otranto._

_She continues, "You must not undertake this lightly. It may still be possible to find a substitute."_

_"What would I need a substitute for, the boy's right there!" his father barks, dismissively. "And you and I both know this is the only way to thwart my brother."_

_The Seer takes a deep, calming breath._

_"He is your son," she reminds him._

_"Then he should be glad for the opportunity to honour his father."_

_He is. He is. And as he sees the Seer's eyes only grow more doubtful and cold towards his father his mouth opens, because he knows (remembers) that this is important to his father._

_"I want to help," he says._

_His voice is that of a child's. The other two are further away than he'd thought too; he is smaller, because he is a child._

_He doesn't understand._

_He has faith, so he doesn't need to._

_"Please," he says. "I do want to honour you, father—please. If I can help, help anyway at all, I swear I'd do it for you, father. Please."_

_From his father the Seer gets a look of 'what did I tell you?', but she only has eyes for him; dark, secretive eyes so different from her son's for all they looked alike. She looks right through his pretence and approaches him slowly. His restraints are holding him up so they are of equal height._

_"It will hurt," she tells him._

_"Pain helps us understand the Passion," he replies; like a dog that knows to sit when his master's fingers snap._

_But she nods._

_"Before I do this," she says, "I must tell you one thing."_

_She reaches within the folds of her clothes, and then withdraws..._

_... a key._

The _key._

_In his chest, his heart begins to pound like the waves against the rock._

_"There is a light, beyond the darkness," she says. "There is hope."_

Liar _, he wants to say._ Liar, liar _..._

_His child self only says, "I believe."_

 

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

Once again he's sitting at the writing desk in his quarters, and the door closing somewhere behind him indicates a servant has just left the room. His writing materials are out, the sealing wax is still soft, and letters have been written but he doesn't remember what they said or who they were to.

It doesn't matter though. It is the will of God.

Writing has made the scar below his dominant hand throb with pain again. He thinks how useless it would be to try and open the wound up and try again; for God has made his plans for him quite clear, when someone clears their throat behind him.

Indignantly so. He turns, and feels his eyes widen with shock.

(It's the most he's felt anything since his father died.)

"Surprised to see me?"

It's da Vinci's mongrel lapdog; standing near the same passageway Carlo had been days (weeks, months?) ago, arms folded, hip cocked, looking at him like a woman about to start a scolding.

At no point had he heard the dog had died. It's actually quite... disheartening, somehow.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

"How did I get in, you mean?" asks Zoroaster. "A bit easier this time than when we had to use the suit; Signora Orsini told me about the passageways. Well; she told Leo, and Leo told me."

It's only then Riario remembers there's every chance the man is actually alive, and perhaps he has become too used to talking to the dead. Since he doesn't consider Zoroaster of all people a threat, and since he is no threat to Zoroaster given that God decided to spare him back in Florence when he'd escaped da Vinci's workshop, he lets himself smile and puts his pen back to his paper.

"So here you are."

"Here I am. Got my hands on the page too, if you're wondering."

"I wasn't. I don't need it."

Why da Vinci has given it to this... person, he's sure he doesn't want to know.

"Oh, that's right," says the intruder. "You wanted Leo to have it." He laughs ruefully, shaking his head. "You know, the stupid bastard was actually glad to hear from you? Moping around ever since you went off to certain death and now I see him happy for the first time since Andrea's murder."

By 'hear from him' Riario assumes he means 'hear of him'—he doesn't think that da Vinci would enjoy what the hand of God might write through him even if the Artista had been one of the recipients of his mystery letters. It's surprising, though, that the man has been that miserable for that long.

Idly he wonders just how long it has been. He thinks it might be the tail-end of winter right now, but he isn't entirely sure.

"You did know about Andrea, didn't you?"

Riario frowns. "Of course I did."

Zoroaster rolls his eyes. "Spies;" he guesses, "of course. Anyway, I still remember how overjoyed I was when you shoved a dagger against my neck back in the Vault of Heaven—"

_Two keys, two keys; there is a sun that shines when the night is over. There is hope. You know that the Sun and the Moon can sit in the same sky, child?_

"—and frankly, I trust you about as much as I trust my cock in a crocodile's mouth."

"Da Vinci must consider himself fortunate to have found a companion who so shares his gift for imagery."

The mongrel only glares. "I want to know what you're playing at."

An easy enough question to answer.

"I am enacting the will of God on Earth."

"Sure you are. Will of God on Earth, that is so you, and haven't I always said it? Fuck's sake." He groans with exasperation. "I can't believe Leo hasn't even stopped to ask where you got the information about where they were moving the Medici gold to; or why Clarice Orsini is suddenly your best friend."

Riario is a little offended on the Artista's behalf that his servant seems to think he hasn't realised that Riario is One with the Labyrinth. It is quite obvious, when you know what da Vinci knows, and no doubt he has more important concerns on his mind.

As for Clarice, it's clear the dead are appearing to both sides in accordance with the will of God. He's a little confused as to what the Lord means by that; and also of Zoroaster's mention of the Medici gold—as if Riario had been the one to let that slip somehow—but since he has faith in his Heavenly controller, he doesn't spend too much time thinking about it.

"She told us Lucrezia was helping her too—do you have her on your payroll again as well? Found another loved one to threaten?"

Riario's feeling upon the mention of his cousin is odd. Angry and guilty—and even a little sad. Has she returned too, he wonders, to give counsel or act on behalf of da Vinci? Does he find comfort in her presence? He hopes so.

But he hasn't seen Lucrezia since they parted ways outside of the city all those... all that time ago. As he explains—

"You were with me the last time I saw my cousin."

Zoroaster's eyes darken. "Oh, yes; I remember that too. You don't know how lucky you are that Leo doesn't seem to. Course, I don't want you to think you can just write me off." He's at least a little resentful, and begins to walk around the room; picks a locked book with a gilt silver cover up, wrinkles his nose and puts it back down again. "People like you have met less glorious ends than on my blade."

"Please," Riario says playfully. "You'll make me blush."

Another glare is sent his way, and Zoroaster moves closer. "Don't think I won't do a lot more than that if you keep putting Florence in danger. We know you're the one organising that whole thing—or did you think the Medici didn't have spies of their own? I'm not the only one who thinks you're just trying to distract Leo so your plan to take Florence goes unchallenged."

Trust Zoroaster to have 'realised' the _exact opposite_ of the plan to keep da Vinci occupied with the upcoming invasion. Riario rewards him with a little laugh, which the mongrel ignores, telling him:

"You'd think you might have learned your lesson from the first time around."

"Oh, really?" Riario asks, and he's still so amused he can't help the mockery in his tone. "Well, unfortunately for your republic I don't think it can rely twice on Captain Dragonetti deciding to betray his betrayal of his first betrayal so he can put himself in peak position to betray us again. You will be glad to know that, this time around, none of your fellow citizens have crossed far enough into our arms that they could take any valuable information with them by crossing back."

It seems like his appraisal of Dragonetti's fickle loyalties is actually news to Zoroaster, from the look he gives him.

"Did you not know about that?" There's actually a touch of true sympathy beneath his taunting. "Well, don't worry. We both know the good Captain won't be causing any more grief."

For a moment Zoroaster looks confused, then shrugs it off and mutters—

"Never liked that bastard." Then, "but I was talking about the _first_ , first time. You know, when Leo scared you off with a firework?"

"The firework I actually found quite charming," Riario tells him. "It was the larger versions I didn't have the inclination to experience."

Zoroaster snorts. And then he seems to realise something. His eyes widen, he struggles to hold in a laugh, and ends up covering half his face with his hand before he calms a bit and says, still almost laughing—

"Uh, you did realise that those bombards didn't actually work, right? I mean, Nico didn't mention it on the _Basilisk_ or anything? There was no way to launch something that heavy without a cannon, and when you put them in a cannon it just blew up in your face."

Now that Riario thinks about it he had heard something like that from Nico, and it hadn't exactly come as a surprise. It doesn't matter as much now that the Turks have managed to get them working, as the survivors of the Crusade could have testified to.

Although, he isn't exactly sure how they'd done it when da Vinci had failed. Likely they weren't as easily distracted as he, he supposes.

"I'm sure da Vinci has all manner of new infernal devices to vex God's army," he says after a while, shrugging. "We will be prepared to meet all of them."

Laughter abruptly dying, Zoroaster simply stands and stares at him for a while.

"Are you serious?" he asks him. "I mean, about any of this, are you serious? You're really going to go ahead with attacking Florence, and you really think you can handle whatever Leonardo throws at you?"

"Yes," says Riario, trying to impart in one word how obvious an answer it is. "Even da Vinci cannot defeat God."

"And now you're God too; that's brilliant. That's just brilliant."

It's actually quite fun to see the mongrel misunderstand everything he says so fundamentally. Almost endearing. They're becoming quite good friends.

And Zoroaster has by now come close enough to see the page he hadn't stopped writing on since the other man had made his presence known. He begins to say something, then stops, and stares at the paper on Riario's desk.

But Riario doesn't turn to look at what he's been writing all this time until Zoroaster asks him—

"What... what are you doing?"

\--and only then does he glance back at the paper.

He can see why Zoroaster looks disturbed. It seems Riario has been unwittingly practicing his own artistic talents while his mind was on the friendly conversation with Zoroaster.

It's a depiction of one of his other artworks re-imagined; the horn-like cross of the Labyrinth, inverted, with a man hung upside-down upon it. His face is indistinct, but his heart is laid bare, and crowned with thorns. The light that's in the picture stems from his drawing of the full moon; but he makes it seem much brighter than moonlight ever gets because the shading is in such stark contrast. There's almost no spot on the page that's neither blank nor solid black.

And there's a scroll wrapping around the man; a scroll with words written in his own neat script that reads: 'THERE IS NO FUCKING SUN IN HERE WHY HAVE WE BEEN FORSAKEN?'

Not a bad drawing if he does say so himself. He looks back at Zoroaster and chuckles.

"No need to look so worried," he assures him. "It's not supposed to be _you_."

Zoroaster shakes his head. This time, he takes a step back.

"I'm not doing this," he declares. "You're completely insane, there's no point in talking to you."

He turns to leave. Riario calls after him—

"Have a safe trip back. The Labyrinth use those tunnels too, you know."

His words stop the mongrel in his tracks. But only for a moment. Then he leaves, and the emptiness returns.

Riario stays sitting at his desk for a long time after that, staring at his artistic endeavour in the place where their eyes should have been if they hadn't been sewn shut.

On second glance the figure may not look like Zoroaster, but it is... familiar, somehow.

There's an ache in the scar beneath his writing hand, and as if trying to tell him something there are two pains like wounds have been opened on either side of his head. Impulsively, he decides to draw a set of bull's horns on the figure, and this serves to make the pain stop.

It's witchcraft, technically. Da Vinci almost faced the fire for such deeds. But as he reaches to his head and is almost surprised the horns aren't really there, he understands. He is no longer subject to the laws of men, after all.

And the less he feels like the wretched man he used to be, the less he feels he needs to eat to sustain his human body. At dinner that night, all he can bear to put in his mouth are a few pomegranate seeds, thinking of the bombards that had torn all those men to bits.

He decides to go back to the Architect for more guidance.

 

*~*~*

 


	2. The Enemy Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer died before I could post the second chapter yesterday. I told you too-long chapters borked my interwebs! (I accidentally pressed Ctrl+v twice and made the text so long it didn't work properly. I blame the music of today!)
> 
> NOTE: In my head-canon the Labyrinth follows some weird and heavily corrupted form of Catharism; an alternative Christianity that became popular in the south of France and other places until the Catholic Church ignited a crusade against them in the 13th century (this is where the famous 'Kill them all and let God sort them out!' quote supposedly originates from). This crusade is mentioned briefly in the fic.
> 
> More notes on the actual plot (such as it is) of the fic will be at the end.

 

*~*~*

 

_In the centre of his Labyrinth, the Minotaur struggles to sit upright as the weight of his horns pull unendingly on the deep, dense darkness in his head._

_In the mirror opposite him, Nico Machiavelli approaches—on a white horse—two cloaked figures standing at the foot of an angel's statue, surmounted on a tomb inscribed:_

_DONATI_

_"Signora?" the boy calls. Young man, really, he's come a long way._

_Riario is very proud of him._

_Clarice Orsini hears the call first; he sees her face when the hood turns towards Nico. And without knowing why, exactly, he knows it is his cousin beneath the other cloak even before the Mother of Florence shoves her slightly to get her attention._

_"Donati," she mutters. "Machiavelli is here."_

_Lucrezia presents him with a black eye and split lip when she finally shows her face, but the other eye is not as sunken as it had been when he'd last seen her alive, so he supposes death agrees with her._

_It does seem a little odd, though—that the dead can bear wounds like that._

_"Nico!" she calls back, and sounds less than worse for wear as well._

_"Signora Donati," Nico greets her, close enough now not to shout. As Riario would have advised him, he does not ask about the bruises on her face._

_Riario has the feeling they might have Florence's oh-so-gentle mother to thank for them. It's just a feeling, of course. No doubt the will of God played a hand in it._

_(he smiles a little)_

_"What's happened?" Lucrezia asks. "Is Leonardo all right? My father was implying there'd been some kind of ambush in the old ruins—"_

_"The Maestro is all right," Nico assures her, hastily enough to cut her off. "He was wounded, but the Turk showed up at the last minute and he's going to be all right."_

_"The Turk? You mean Al-Rahim?"_

_Nico nods; hesitates in what he's about to say and looks around like the information will be sensitive._

_"Him and Leo's mother too."_

_Leonardo must have been as popular with the ghosts as Riario was. And clearly Nico could see and talk to them as well. The Lord's ways were, indeed, mysterious._

_"His mother?" Clarice says, frowning. "I thought she disappeared when he was a baby—what in God's name does she have to do with anything?"_

_Poor Clarice certainly was behind the times, so to speak._

_"She did," Nico tells her, not looking at all surprised that she doesn't already know it. "On her own quest to find the Book of Leaves. According to her, Signora Donati met her in Constantinople."_

_He gestures towards her._

_"What?" Lucrezia says. "You mean... the slave woman? The one in chains who kept asking all those questions?"_

_Yet again, Nico looks not at all surprised that Lucrezia hadn't known that. But Riario is, and the surprise is stark enough to stir something uncomfortable in him, because he'd been positive his cousin should have already known that. Positive._

_"Maestro struck the chains off as soon as he woke up," Nico says, with a snort._

_"So, she knows where this magic Book is?" Clarice asks, before an increasingly upset-looking Lucrezia can find words._

_Nico grimaces._

_"Yes," he says—but before Riario can blink—"But she's not going to tell us."_

_Clarice glares. "What?"_

_"She has a plan; supposedly," Nico says, with such discomfort that Riario can infer he has little to no understanding of what's going on, and knows Signora Orsini isn't going to be happy about that. Though, what he has to fear from a dead woman, Riario couldn't say. Perhaps he's just entertaining a habit from when she was alive? "She said... that if she told Leo where to find the Book, there might be a trap waiting for him, but if he finds it on his own she'll know her plan worked."_

_There's a small silence._

_"That sounds like complete nonsense."_

_With a sigh, Nico rubs his forehead. "I know, but she seemed to be relieved when Leo told her the two of you were looking for Sophia; said that was a good sign... I don't know. Maestro wanted to sneak back into the Vatican and get the page they have there, but your husband insisted he stay in Florence, so Zo went instead."_

_"Into the Vatican?" Lucrezia hisses. "Is he mad!? We may not yet know exactly what my cousin is planning, but you can be sure he'll string Zoroaster up without a second thought if he's caught!"_

_Clarice gives her a sharp look, but says nothing. Nico just winces, and hesitantly says—_

_"He might. I have to say, I spent months as his captive on the Basilisk, and I still don't understand the way his mind works."_

_"That's because it works_ wrong _," Lucrezia says with an angry laugh. Then, with a quick look at Clarice as if she thought the other ghost might object, despite having the least reason of anyone to, "Not that I'm in any position to judge, I do understand that now. I can even see where you might think me even more damned; without having the excuse of being insane—"_

_"No one thinks that, Signora," says Nico. "And I don't think Riario is insane, either."_

_"You've never met his father," Lucrezia reminds him. "Trust me, if you had you'd be finding it difficult to conceive of him_ not _being insane. Either way, Zoroaster is in grave danger."_

_"I know," says Nico. "I've known from the start. But I still hoped that if he was caught, Riario might intercede on his behalf rather than having him immediately killed."_

_"Riario might think that_ was _interceding on his behalf."_

_This conversation is interesting to Riario, because it surprises him there's any question among the three of them. He knows he's not insane, of course, but he knows the people in front of him well enough to have assumed it was the only way they could have seen him. Leonardo, for one, would never believe he was acting according to the direct command of the Creator._

_Childish, really; when he agreed the creation of man was diabolical. What kind of God does he think watches over them? He loves his children, yes, and unconditionally—but his love is not the same as mortal fathers have for mortal sons._

_As they are supposed to, anyway—according to general consensus._

_He supposes, and he must grant the Artista this, that it is not impossible objectively that he is insane. That the will of God inside him is delusion. That there are no horns pushing out from his skull._

_But of course, that is not the case._

_Because it isn't._

_"What?" Lucrezia says. "Why are you looking at me like that?"_

_She's addressing Nico, who quickly averts his eyes and says, "Nothing—I was just thinking it was strange; you seem more understanding of him than before; or like you're trying anyway."_

_Lucrezia looks at the ground. She doesn't give an explanation._

_After a long silence, Clarice takes a deep breath and says, "Come on. We need to get a move on before—"_

_She cuts herself off, because something has caught her gaze; but it's outside the scope of what Riario can see in the mirror, and he can only writhe on the floor his horns now rest against, too heavy to move, as he watches the frown of his former victim deepen._

_"Signor Machiavelli?" she says, slowly._

_Nico turns on his horse, and blanches. Lucrezia's eyes go wide._

_"That's her," she says; a ghost acting like she's seen a ghost._

_Which, technically, is true; as Riario hears the voice:_

_"I had to see you," she says. "To make sure you were on the right track."_

_Riario knows by now the voice of Leonardo's mother when he hears it._

_"Are you Clarice Orsini?"_

_Clarice clenches her fists. "I am," she declares. "Who are—"_

_"Then I must ask you how you knew to look for Sophia, and how you knew where she could be..."_

_There's a beat._

_"... How many people do you see in this grove?"_

_All three of them exchange looks._

_"What?" asks Clarice._

_"How many people do you see in this grove?"_

_How many people occupy this chamber?_

_How many people occupy this chamber?_

_How many people occupy this chamber?_

_The echo of it makes his head hurt so much more that he almost misses Nico say, in bewilderment, "Four?"_

_Riario feels his eyes burn. It's the wrong answer._

_"No," says the Seer, finally walking into view. "There are five."_

_Then her eyes turn on his._

_"Which one are you?" she asks._

Which one what?, _he wonders, though the pain is too much to handle now._ Which one what?

_(He's lying to himself. He knows exactly which one what)_

 

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

It's like the sudden pulse of excitement that thrummed throughout his veins that night he'd waded into the river; so numb the freezing water had felt warm. His body shakes even as it is stretched to the point of immobility, filled up to the tips of his fingers with some kind of knife-sharp energy that crashes into him like...

Like he'd fallen into the sun.

As the feeling melts away into comfortable pain, he realises it had been the aftershock of orgasm. Only then does he remember how to breathe.

He's hot all over; the body on top of him burns like fire, his arms burn back where they're tied to the frame of the bed above his head—soft leather, but tied so that he can't get free—his spent cock lies raw between him and the other, and below that...

...the other is inside him. It's a strange sensation; shocking, painful, but not as much as he might have expected.

A long time ago he would have been undone to find himself waking up to such a thing, but he's woken up to too many dead bodies staining his hands with their blood to be upset by this.

The only thing that's left is the relief he feels when the head that had been tucked against his neck lifts up, and he sees that it's Leonardo.

The artist doesn't look at him right away. He's breathing heavily, and murmurs in Riario's ear—

"Are you all right?"

Riario smiles.

"Fine," he whispers back.

It's true, after all. Everything that happens is God's will, so everything that happens is good. So this is good. And he's also happy anyway, because he likes seeing Leonardo.

As a gentle kiss is pressed to the corner where his jaw meets his neck, his eyes close from the pleasure of it.

Deep inside, where the echoes of things he used to feel are still bouncing off the darkest walls in his mind, he thinks he thinks the words, ' _What are you, a fucking dog? How low are you going to sink, Girolamo_?' but they drift away like blood into the river soon enough.

Leonardo stretches, winces, and lifts himself up.

"Hang on. You'll be more comfortable in a moment."

He begins to pull himself out of Riario's lower half—the sensation is odd, unpleasant; his heart starts beating faster as if to protest and when his artist is gone it makes him feel soiled. A soft whimper escapes him too quickly for him to hold it back.

"Shh," says Leonardo. "I've got you. It's okay. Just wait one second and I'll untie you too."

"No, don't," Riario tells him, immediately, without even thinking about what he's saying.

But he can't help it. As soon as he'd heard the words he'd had an inescapable sense that something bad would happen if Leonardo untied his wrists from the bed frame.

His Artista is a skilled, precocious fighter, true. But Riario's body is the sword of God, and he cannot be defeated anymore.

(a part of him admires the audacity of the artist; to defile God's chosen. He's really quite breathtaking)

At long last, Leonardo meets his eyes—nearly glowing, even in the low light. Where are they, anyway? He probably should have asked himself that already.

"Girolamo..." he says; a little uncertain, a little sad. "When you asked me to restrain you, you said it would make you feel safe."

He'd said that?

Yes, it sounds like something he'd say. If not out loud--but Leonardo can read anything, after all.

"... I want you to feel that way, I do, but you won't be safe if you lose all the circulation in your hands."

The genuine concern in his voice makes Riario chuckle, and suddenly Leonardo's head tilts, and he flinches back.

"There's something different," he says.

"About what?"

"About you. Something..." he peers closer again, swinging his leg around so none of his weight is on Riario's body anymore and leaning over. "Something's changed."

His face contorts. He cannot understand it.

And neither can Riario. Oh, he remembers splitting in two; the agony of a fracture throughout his very soul, but the two halves of him; saint and sinner, had battled it out and he had proven victorious.

He supposes the problem is that he isn't sure which one of those two he actually is. He remembers doing things as both of them. Remembers screaming obscenities and begging for death—chained up in the same place like an animal as Leonardo watched him, and listened to his cries.

_It's the will of God,_ he reminds himself. _It's all right. It's all, always, all right._

"What... what happened? Did I hurt you?"

"You've never hurt me, Artista."

That might be a lie; Riario's not entirely sure.

"Then what's wrong—there's something missing in your eyes that was there a moment ago... and something there now that wasn't... is this about the Labyrinth?"

Riario blinks.

With a sigh, Leonardo runs his hand over his hair. "Clarice didn't exactly go into great detail about it. Only that when Carlo found her and brought her to the caves she saw you and... well. She didn't say. And I'm afraid the term 'Sword of Damocles' had no meaning for her either."

"Have you seen Carlo, lately?" Riario asks him.

He means since the Artista killed him. Leonardo shakes his head, more tense than before.

So Riario tells him, "I have," and Leonardo does a double-take.

"You're that far in with them?"

Not knowing whether one indeed needs to be so far in with Labyrinth in order to see the ghosts of former members, Riario only nods and doesn't think about the strangeness of the phrasing. He'd been thinking too much about strange words lately, when it's only natural the words of humans sound strange to him since his transformation.

"I am One with the Labyrinth," he reminds Leonardo.

"Don't say that," Leonardo replies, and leans forward to kiss his hairline.

Riario decides to indulge him.

"I won't," he says. "If you promise to keep me restrained for now."

Leonardo deflates a little, but there's also a kind of amusement in his face when he sits up again and nods.

"All right," he says. "But don't blame me if someone walks in here and we don't have time to hide you. Lorenzo would kill us both, Zo would probably kill himself, and if my mother suddenly decides to do one of her projection tricks... well. I honestly don't know her well enough to know, but I assume it will be embarrassing."

"You've spoken with your mother?" Riario asks with interest. The two of them had only had that one conversation prior to her death, unless you counted the message left on the brazen head, and really neither one should count.

He'd had even less with his, and so he's interested.

(the thought that _she_ might come back with the other dead is terrible, he banishes it from his mind immediately)

Instead of answering immediately, Leo picks something up from a cluttered table beside the bed (are they back in the workshop? In Florence? How could he have travelled so far?) and turns it around in his hands.

"Lorenzo's keeping her under house arrest," he says quietly. "I can't really blame him. She won't say anything more about the Book, and all we know about the convent was that it was funded by that Venetian woman—Cereta—before she died. God knows what Clarice and Lucrezia will be walking into there." He sighs. "At least he's finally going to let me go after them though."

That name still makes Riario's heart flutter. He repeats it unconsciously.

"Cereta?"

"I think she and my mother were working together," Leo says—one of the more patently absurd things he's come up with, to be sure. "But... I don't know, they had some kind of falling out. From the little I managed to gather, I think my mother did something Cereta found utterly unforgivable."

"You think your mother capable of such an act?" Riario asks him. "Despite her blood running in your veins? Or perhaps, because of it?"

This kind of banter is familiar enough to them now that Leonardo only smirks at him.

"I know very well what I am capable of," he says, with confidence.

As if on a whim, he holds the object between his thumb and forefinger up so Riario can see it too, like it illustrates his point somehow.

It's a gold coin, with a lion's—

 

*~*~*

 

_The roar of the river of time rages in his ears. If this is one tenth the pain of the Passion; he feels so unworthy that he's less that nothing._

_"Remember, Girolamo, the key is hope. The sun is hope. But you must also remember, whenever you see the lion's head—"_

_"Are you my mother?" he asks, practically out of nowhere; he cannot even believe the words came out of his dry and bleeding mouth._

_She's silent for a moment._

_"No," she says. "No, my poor child. Tell me, Girolamo, how many people occupy this chamber?"_

_The key catches the light where it hangs around her neck. He takes a deep breath and tries again._

 

*~*~*

 

"The Sword of Damocles is resolved," the Architect is saying with a sigh, the next time Riario sees him in the Labyrinth. Carlo and the Physician are there too, and of all people the heathen Turk who slaughtered both Leonardo's parents.

They've met before. They must have, otherwise how would he recognise him now?

He's looking better than he did when the lightning bolt had struck him, though that wouldn't have been hard, and none of the other dead have born their fatal wounds in the waking world.

Assuming...

No, he won't even consider _that_. He must instead pay attention to the Architect.

"It is not enough to cow the Florentines. The city must be razed; as the Rome of old razed Carthage. Then we shall return to our former glory, and bring order to the states of Christendom once and for all."

Carlo grumbles, "I thought that we sought enlightenment, Brother—not power."

The Turkish dragon glares at him. The Architect smiles; if in an exasperated fashion.

"Power is not the end goal, Brother, only _gnosis_. But if the Albigensian Crusades taught us anything, it is that we cannot provide _gnosis_ for the people of the world from the bottom up; our enemies would but silence us once more with the fire and the sword. Thus, we must work top-down."

Riario can tell Carlo is not satisfied, even though he doesn't argue the point. Nor does he blame the man for being unsatisfied.

Sometimes the Labyrinth can sound an awful lot like the Sons of Mithras.

"Can the Sword of Damocles not work top-down without destroying Florence, given his position?" asks the Physician. He too sounds a touch wary of this plan.

"Not as long as Florence continues to defy the papacy," says the Architect.

"It's Lorenzo who defies the papacy," Riario points out, staring off at the light that reflects off the running water in the corner. "You have already proven there are many faithful still in Florence. If God wills it, I could end his defiance. Him and his _whore_."

From one second to the next the atmosphere that had been in the room bursts; Carlo flies up from his chair in a rage and slaps Riario across the face—an act so out of nowhere that he just stares at him after—while the other three now gaze at Carlo with icy coldness.

"Apologise, Carlo," hisses the Physician. "I'm beginning to think it might be an idea to put an end to Signora Orsini regardless, for your sake if nothing else."

And end? Make her more ended than the majority of the table, he means? Riario wonders how that would be possible. He'd been talking about Vanessa Moschella anyway, he doesn't know why Carlo had forgotten that.

The silence that ensues reigns until Carlo lowers his shoulders and looks away.

"I apologise, Brother."

"That's fine," he says.

"Perhaps you should apologise too, Angel of Death," says the Turk—and with special mockery placed on his name. "This isn't the first time you've pleaded Florence's case. Are you truly One with us, while you defend our enemies? I don't remember there being a great deal of the _faithful_ in that cesspit."

The Architect looks sharply at him. "Riario is Our compassion, as well as Our sword. The two go hand in hand better than most people would think."

"Then maybe I'm Our doubt," says the Turk, with no trace of humour. "For I do not trust him. Someone alerted the Medici to their gold and someone alerted da Vinci to the assassinations. The ungodly painter is also getting closer to the Book of Leaves. _Someone_ is interfering with the path, and when I find out who it is I'll make my thrice-damned brother look like the Virgin Mary by what I do to them—may he find his home in Hell."

The Impaler would have to actually die for that, so the point is moot.

And anyway, wasn't this man the one who had worked for the Sons of Mithras in life?

As the Architect leaves the conversation open for anyone to interject, Riario asks lightly—

"Do I know you?"

And the Turk grits his teeth, then sneers.

"How many people occupy this chamber?" he asks—again with mockery.

Riario shrugs. "Five hundred thousand," he replies, a joke that only makes the Turk look angrier.

"Enough." The Architect steps in to stop the situation from escalating. "The Sword of Damocles insists on it: Florence must fall."

The finality in his tone ends all arguments, but Riario isn't worried. If it is God's will, Florence will fall indeed.

If it isn't, well...

 

*~*~*

 

_"Well, if Sophia's in that box then she must be all of ten inches tall."_

_The river of time continues to flow. Riario finds he enjoys watching the mirror, and the adventures of the Artista within them. Not because he wishes he could be a part of them, not any longer since he'd hardly wish the Minotaur on someone he admires so devoutly, but because he loves them and he loves to see them be themselves._

_Yes, long gone are the screams inside his head that selfishly ask why he could not have the same and whine about how unfair it all was; God's grace has given him the ability to content himself, and appreciate the beauty that exists in other people's lives._

_Like looking at all Leonardo's spell-binding paintings._

_"I'm sure what is in there is information that will lead to this 'Sophia'," says Lorenzo, looking annoyed that he has to deign to speak to Zoroaster—who had made the jape._

_Those two and the ghost of Leonardo's father are in some mausoleum by the looks of it, appraising the box the Artista laid down on the tomb in front of them. Both Clarice and Lucrezia's spectres lurk behind him, both noticeably wary of Lorenzo. Riario doesn't know that the man even sees them though._

_Leonardo has a look on his face that is the height of his mania and the deepest plunge into opiate-fuelled dreaming combined: pure ecstasy, he doesn't know how else to describe it._

_"Oh no," he says, on the verge of laughing or crying. "No, this is Sophia all right."_

_"Eh?"_

_One laugh escapes the man struggling to hold the onslaught back. "Don't you see?" he exclaims. Audaciously, he leans forward and claps his hands on Lorenzo's shoulders, startling everyone and too much for any to say a word about it. "Sophia?" he cries, as if the name explains everything._

_"Da Vinci..."_

_"It means wisdom," he all but yells. "Sophia was never a person at all—it was the Book of Leaves!"_

_Lorenzo's eyes widen._

_"You mean... the Book is in that box?"_

_All the serenity that flows like blood around Riario's mind suddenly ceases. For a moment, he feels... Well, for a moment he feels._

_It's God's will, though. All God's will. It is God's will._

_What would a Minotaur care for books?_

_"Zo, did you get the page?"_

_Slowly; reluctantly if Riario doesn't mistake him, Zoroaster picks up a leather satchel and presents it to Leonardo; who grabs it like an animal and plunders it for the page that is set in glass—just as it had been in the Secret Archives. The Artista grins like a man possessed. Then he sets the glass aside, and flicks at catches along the box in question—some ridiculously complex puzzle box it had taken da Vinci a good five minutes to solve, no doubt._

_"Leo," Zoroaster begins, in the same voice. "Are you really sure about this? Why would Riario all but give you the Book of Leaves? He was as obsessed with the thing as you are, maybe more."_

_Strange how Zoroaster sees it like that. Perhaps he means that Riario has allowed this to happen by not going after the Book himself lately?_

_It doesn't matter. He knows his Brethren were hoping da Vinci wouldn't find the Book, but what could it matter when God himself works through Riario?_

_And of course, there is the fact that this is all a dream to take into consideration._

_Leonardo only rolls his eyes, not pausing in his task even after the top clicks open along a line that had been hidden in the decoration; he flips the pieces back and takes out..._

_Riario blinks. How curious._

_It is large for a book, but not unusually so; pure black all over in a material he can't identify, it's only distinguishing mark a little circle of leaves embossed a touch above the centre._

_And that's all there is to say about it._

_Until Leonardo pries it open and reveals it doesn't have any pages._

_"Da Vinci," growls Lorenzo, exasperated. "That is not a book."_

_At that moment, Leonardo cannot hold back his laughter; and the other three men in the room give each other looks in lieu of simply asking if the artist's sanity has finally fled in its entirety. But when they then look to the women—who apparently they can see—only blank stares await them._

_"You're right!" Leonardo cries. "You're absolutely right—it's not a book, it's not a book at all!"_

_He puts his fingertips along one edge, pries a panel open along another unseen line and reveals several buttons decorating the slightly inset face. He then presses the largest one on the end, and something clicks._

_"It's a library."_

_Even though Riario has already seen something like this before, when the Artista and his sister had been looking at the page from the book, he still has no words to describe how the top of the 'Book' suddenly lights up like the sun shines from within it and throws a luminous image into the air._

_It's almost like the projection that had been thrown into the sky over Florence that night, oh so long ago, only this seems to have no mechanism to produce such a thing, and when Leonardo fails to wait for the gaping onlookers to take in the strange revolving symbol that now floats in the air above them before he thrusts his hand into the light, the symbol moves with his touch._

_"What..." the dead father mutters. "What... sorcery..."_

_"It's not sorcery," Leonardo laughs. "Sixtus thought it was written by the Nephilim, and Riario thought it was compiled in Atlantis—and he was closer than his uncle-father-whatever; because it is indeed the remnants of a civilisation utterly destroyed by an unstoppable cataclysm, and one of their own making!"_

_A long box of light appears to replace the symbol, and a second later another set of light-boxes below it; each one emblazoned with a letter of the Roman alphabet._

_Leonardo has obviously already been practicing; as always he has the patience of a four-year-old, and Riario finds it endearing. And that's the primary feeling he has, as Leonardo touches the box which reads 'L', and an L appears in the long white box above the alphabet. He almost doesn't care about the book._

_God gave him the grace not to concern himself with worldly matters, like this and the lives he took. For had He not said, 'All manner of things shall be well'?_

_"The thing is," Leonardo says, as he puts more letters in the white box, spelling out 'LEONARDO DA VINCI'. "It isn't a civilisation that was destroyed a long time ago. In fact, it hasn't even happened yet. This library travelled backwards along the river of time—much further back than I think was intended by those who sent it, intended to warn their ancestors of the coming apocalypse; which I have to admit I don't fully understand yet."_

_Ah, yes. The Architect had said something about the apocalypse at some point. The Book of Leaves destroying the world—and if that's the will of God, then Riario supposes that's what will happen._

_As soon as Leonardo's name is completed, other words spring forth in the light—a language Riario does not immediately recognise—and in an instant the images change; the alphabet and box disappear and in the air of the cave two dozen or so books, made of light, just materialise in neat little rows._

_Their covers are brightly coloured; some with pictures, some with pictures so life-like it's like looking at a frozen moment cut into a rectangle with words Riario barely recognises any one of laid over them._

_"By all that is holy..." breathes the dead father—which is admittedly strange for a dead man to do, but never mind._

_Leonardo touches one of the books of light. The others immediately fly off to the sides and the one he touched grows larger, opens, there are words written on pages that cannot truly be there, it is entirely made of light, and yet the light is somehow solid._

_"This..." Lorenzo whispers. "This is fantastic... and impossible...!"_

_"The books that appeared were only the ones my mother was reading before she hid it," says Leonardo. When he touches the edge of the page, it looks like it turns over, and new words exist beneath it—all even neater in format than the books Riario has seen from the German printing press. "There are thousands somehow contained within. This one's a history: 'The Italian States on the Eve of the Renaissance'."_

_With a flick of his wrist he dismisses the book and brings back the selection from before._

_"And this one: 'The New Cambridge History of Engineering'. Most of the books seem to be in some radical form of English; I think it was the language of the original owner of the library. And the page—"_

_He retrieves the page from the glass._

_"—is not a page, but another book in its entirety, look!"_

_On the adjacent side of the 'device', as he calls it, another panel is pried back. This one reveals a thin slot above a selection of what look to be strange keyholes. Leonardo inserts the page into the slot, as carefully as he can given he's shaking like the tomb is made of ice; which neither of the other living men are, so it must be the excitement._

_In front of the pages made of light, a message appears that makes Leonardo laugh, and he sounds absolutely exhausted._

_"It says it's 'reading' it!" he shouts. "This was the last book my mother read before she hid the library—I know it's important somehow; she said everything would make sense when—"_

_The pages vanish. A new, closed book of light appears in its place, with one of those covers that looks like a frozen moment._

_A woman is depicted by this moment. A woman who looks suspiciously similar to that revolting Madame whom Nico had foolishly given a position on the Council. But there is a line coming down the centre of her face that puts one side in shadow, and the shadowed side has a different expression to the light._

_The background is also spilt. On one side, a sunset. On the other, a crescent moon. Leonardo takes a few moments to translate the title (Riario assumes that too is in English), and as he does, his smile begins to shrink in a way that makes the whole room darker._

_"Leo?" Zoroaster whispers._

_"I don't..."_

_"Leo."_

_Zoroaster is more collected with that appeal; he knows how to ground the Artista even when the world as they know it is reinventing itself in front of their eyes._

_"Some of the words are unfamiliar, I don't..."_

_"What words?"_

_There's a long pause. Riario feels like his heart has suddenly started beating again after years of perfect stillness._

_And Leonardo has the look of someone just as they begin to wonder if the end result of the puzzle they're putting together is something they don't want to see, even as the only pieces they actually have remain innocuous. But then, he has always been quick to realise these things._

_He says:_

_"It's called, '_ The Enemy Within: Programming and the Creation of Sleeper Agents in Post-WW3 East Asia' _."_

 

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

Spinning in front of him, always spinning, the scratching of the surface against the marble floor sounding oddly like a rushing river, there's a single gold coin.

It's strange; but stranger still is how he isn't covered in blood for once.

Then, somewhere behind him, he hears da Vinci's voice, crying out in desperation—

"Please! Please tell me it isn't true! For fuck's sake; I looked for you all this time!"

"I have to go," another voice says, and it's the strangest voice he's ever heard. "He's waking up. I can't let him see—"

"No, wait, please; I want you to be here when she admits—"

"She doesn't have to. I already know. I know. It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter, Girolamo. It _matters_." His Artista is on the verge of tears. It makes him wonder who he was talking to.

...

Oh, well. It's only a dream.

 

*~*~*

 

"Wake up, Girolamo. Wake up."

He wakes up.

He cannot stand to hear the name so few people call him by coming out of the mouth of _that_ man.

"Uncle," he whispers, before he even opens his eyes.

The drops of water in the cave are so loud his ears bleed; and every shockwave they send through the air shakes him to the very core. The space is dark, veritably unlit by candles whose flames barely reach an inch beyond their fire. His eyes are so obscured with blood and tears he wouldn't have been able to see anyway.

And yet, he does see. The mask goes back on his face, and it's Sixtus who puts it there.

(the one he didn't kill)

"My poor boy," the other greets him, jovially. "Are you back with us?"

"Did I ever leave?" Riario asks, with equal cheer. There's a lot of pain in his body—in several places, but so many of them are wounds he doesn't remember getting that there's no point wondering about any of them.

This is becoming an annoying regularity for him. Sixtus chuckles a little, as if reading his thoughts.

"It's good to see you again," he says. "I know we parted on what you might have considered bad terms, but you have to understand—it was the only way to save you. To bring you to the path so that you might have your eyes opened to the Truth."

He sighs.

"Ever since I realised Lucrezia would not be suitable for this role, I have thought of you as like a son to me, Girolamo."

Well, that's stupid. Surely he realises by now how dangerous it is to have Riario as a son?

"As much as I love my daughter," he continues, "it is too much in her nature to doubt. Too much to struggle against fate. Too much to yearn for self-determination; and while these are all admirable qualities in their own way, they are also quite at odds with my purpose for the instrument through which I guide this world to its salvation."

Riario must be missing something here. He knows he is. But as he prepares to dismiss it an image of the Artista's pleading face comes into his mind and he almost hears him ask: _'How can he think to use the Labyrinth as if he had any power over them, when he's all but their prisoner!?'_

And just like that, the answer comes.

"Are you the Sword of Damocles?" he asks.

Sixtus raises his eyebrows. "I see you still have a sharp edge yet. That's good—you'll need it if you are to face da Vinci."

More ridiculousness. If Riario is to face da Vinci, then it will be nothing of himself that defeats the other man; only God's grace inside him. Riario probably won't even be awake for it. His body is only a sword he is doomed to live inside until the Almighty's purpose is fulfilled. Not Sixtus'.

Of course, since he cannot say the 'Sword of Damocles's purpose is at odds with the Lord's, he only sits and listens like a wise man should. It seems his uncle was working for the Labyrinth all along; which makes...

Ah, he was playing both sides. That does make sense after all.

_"If_ you are to face da Vinci," Sixtus repeats, more slowly and considering. "Which I hope you will. I don't have the time left on this Earth to find another. I believe in you anyway, as does the Architect—but the Falchion and Carlo de Medici have questioned your loyalty, and I must admit—there are very few candidates left who could have given away the information that da Vinci, and the Medici, and the Sons of Mithras must have got a hold of in order to have thwarted our search for the Book of Leaves."

"Da Vinci does have the Book then?"

"He does."

That doesn't necessarily mean the dream he'd had of the Artista discovering it had been true; it conflicted with what he already knew about how he and Sophia had read that one page, only...

_Think,_  his Sun's voice begs him in his head. _How do you know about that? How could you possibly know about that!?_

"I don't see that that's anything to grin about!" snaps Carlo, alerting Riario to his presence in the room, and if he had been able to move his eyes without pain then he'd have rolled them. "The Book of Leaves could destroy the world as we know it—as anyone knows it, come to think about it!"

"If it is God's will," says Riario, casually as he can.

Carlo is rather amusingly high-pitched when he responds with: "What!? Are you insane!?"

"Calm yourself, Brother," says the Architect. He's there too; somewhere behind Riario from the sound of it. "Girolamo is still learning; right now his understanding of our nature has been... simplified."

Riario doesn't like hearing his first name from the Architect either. It seems strange, but it's almost as if there's some lingering resentment towards the old man within him.

_Look. Come out where I can see you look, you fucking liar—look at what you've done to me!_

"Ah," says Sixtus. "Now, the one thing I was worried about was whether that might not be the source of our problems. Whether you, my nephew, weren't making the attempt to 'cross the sea unseen', as it were."

Sixtus peers in, closer and closer as he looks into Riario's eyes; and Riario has nothing to hide, and yet he hates looking at that awful face.

Someone had once told him that it took strength to doubt. The weight of doubt, and guilt, and fear for what awaited him had been so heavy before he'd walked out into the river he'd felt it overwhelm and shatter him so that he could be re-made; but now he begins to wonder if he isn't strong enough on his own to entertain... perhaps just a little doubt.

He hates that face.

"Not that it's really your style; you were always a rather cautious player," Sixtus laughs. "And I don't blame you for that, with what you must have grown up with."

_Remember, Girolamo. Remember the key and the Sun that awaits you. Remember where Sophia sleeps. And remember nothing else, or your father's plans will be undone._

His father's plans? His father had never been one for convoluted plots though, that's why the switch with his twin had gone off so perfectly.

Why did Riario still hear da Vinci's mother's voice like that!?

"The Seer..." Riario says, raspily. Sixtus straightens up and blinks in surprise at the mention of her, but Riario can't help but wonder out loud—"Is she really dead?"

"Dead?" Sixtus repeats. "No, she's in Florence, in Lorenzo de Medici's hands—you must have known that?"

For once the trickster sounds uncertain. How Riario relishes that.

The Architect clears his throat. "Forgive me, Brother—our newest member is still a little confused, and with things as they are I thought it best not to upset him... Girolamo; you do remember that what happened during your resistance happened only inside your head? The real Seer; the cardinal, the Mother of Florence, the Captain of the Officers of the Night... they're all still alive in the real world."

Those words...

No matter how hard his weakened mind tries to push its way into their meaning, they continue to make no sense.

"The Turkish fleet never invaded Otranto; da Vinci blocked the bay and they fled when the Neapolitans arrived."

"But..." he says, "... it was da Vinci, who resisted inside his head. Not us. We just broke in two, and those two pieces became the will of God..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," mutters Carlo, but Sixtus interrupts him hastily—

"What do you mean?" he asks; an urgency that defies the jolly old mentor he was a moment ago. "Girolamo, what do you mean, you 'broke in two'?"

Riario frowns.

A cold breeze whistles through the tunnels, shaking the silver hairs on the edge of the old man's beard.

He's beginning to think that no one in this room really understands what's going on.

"He means you and your shitstain twin fucked him up so badly he thinks he's two different people."

If Riario could only have moved his head, he knows he would have seen Zoroaster make his grand and abrupt entrance as he cuts in with that biting appraisal of the situation. A little behind the times; Riario was pretty sure he was only One now (even if he doesn't remember which of the two he split into that one was), but he's more concerned with da Vinci's most faithful pet suddenly being in the room.

Because he'll die if he's in this room, and Riario doesn't want that.

"How did _you_ get in here!?" Carlo cries out.

_Perhaps through that huge wide entrance to the cavern that you left unguarded, Brother._

"Sonar imaging of the tunnel network," Zoroaster declares. "And don't ask me, I don't have a clue what that means. Leo gave me some directions and here I am."

"And where is da Vinci?" Sixtus asks, warily.

Zoroaster snorts. "Believe me he wanted to be here himself to see the look on your face," he replies, "but he's busy setting up."

"Setting up what?"

"Fucked if I know," says Zoroaster. "Bastard never tells me anything, 'cept when he wants me to go rescue his beloved murderous psycho for him. On which note."

"Wait, what is that—!?"

Something hits the ground. Then something opens. And then with a foul hiss a deluge of white mist tumbles out into the air and into the lungs of everyone in the room.

Riario hasn't seen this device before. If he hadn't been falling unconscious from the noxious vapours, he would have liked to have got a look at the internal mechanisms.

 

*~*~*

 

He wakes up.

Like a living vein, the River of Time circles back to its heart, rocking far more gently than before.

He's hot and cold all at the same time. His wounds don't hurt, though he is a little dizzy.

And one of his horns must have been broken off; because his head is nestled against someone's chest without piercing right through him.

"Are you sure you're all right with this?" asks the man whose arms he's lying in.

Zoroaster.

Of all people. The corner of his lip twitches.

"I can manage," says his cousin. He knows it's her, though his head refuses to move enough towards her voice to see for himself. "If we traded places I wouldn't know that I could hold him—if he suddenly attacked, I mean."

"Well, I took all the sharp object off him just to be sure. Still seems a cunt's move to make you steer the boat."

Ah, that's the rocking he feels beneath Zoroaster's body. They're on a boat. Him and the mongrel sitting on a boat together, in the dark, and his cousin is their ferryman.

He had those gold coins somewhere, didn't he? He wonders if she'll take them as payment.

"It's not far," says Lucrezia. "And I trust Leo when he says the gas will keep their men asleep for hours. I only hope we can trust Alfonso to keep my father and the other two locked up. I still don't know how my father escaped the Vatican."

"I let him out," Riario admits.

Zoroaster jerks, and the whole little boat jerks with him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he hisses. "Warn me before you wake up like that!"

_Such a funny little dog_ , Riario thinks.

The mongrel takes a deep breath, then looks down and frowns.

"Wait—are you the crazy one... or the even crazier one?"

"I am the will of God made manifest," Riario says, though he can't think hard enough to remember whether he still believes that or not; it's nicer to just lie there and look up at the sky...

Ah. There's no moon tonight.

"I guess that answers that question," says Zoroaster. "How are you feeling otherwise? I'd prefer to know beforehand if you're about to kill me, if it's not too much to ask."

"No," Riario tells him, and rests his head against the man's chest again. "God doesn't want you dead. Otherwise I'd have taken your life back in Florence—on the night da Vinci showed his Holiness the rocket."

He expects Zoroaster to shoot back with some of their usual unfriendly banter, and when he doesn't, when there's nothing but silence, he can't help but feel like he's forgotten something again.

The only thing is now it's beginning to bother him. Like a hornet whining in his ear before it stings. And he's not altogether ungrateful that he feels that whine.

Zoroaster sighs, long and hard. His voice when he finally responds is gentler than it's ever been towards Riario.

"Hey... Count," he says. He's never addressed Riario by name before, so it's no wonder he was at a loss for which one to use. "You do remember... nothing that happened after the Labyrinth caught you to when—what did Leo say the other you told him? That at the end of it you killed your father? Yeah, between then and that, none of that actually happened. It was all in your head."

All in his head?

That would mean that he was not, in fact, the Minotaur, the Angel of Death, or the will of God made manifest.

And that seems almost too good to be true.

"Zo, maybe you shouldn't—not until we get back to Leo and he's had a chance to read up on this... condition."

Lucrezia cuts in from what seems like far away, and Riario tries to remember when her death had happened in relation to everything else and if, if Zoroaster is right and all that was only a mad dream, that means she's actually still alive.

Her being alive shouldn't be as difficult to comprehend as it is.

"I don't think he's going to hurt me."

"But you don't know!" Lucrezia insists. "You don't know how he'll react and I don't want anything to happen to you! And Zo..."

There's a long pause.

"... I don't want anything—anything _else_ , to happen to him either." Her voice breaks. "He's the only family I have left."

_Maybe this is the dream,_ Riario thinks.

He might have hoped once, before the crack of her sister's bones had been used to punctuate his father's bluster, that she would see it that way, but he wasn't delusional.

Well, actually he was. It was just so tiring trying to tell reality and illusion apart these days.

"Once the other him comes back he can use the astral projection that woman taught him to speak to Leo about it; he's more used to it now."

That woman.

"The Seer?" he asks.

Without looking, he knows Zoroaster and Lucrezia are exchanging a look.

"You remember that you met her, when you were a kid?" Zoroaster asks him.

Riario had inferred by now that the logic of this place—dream or reality—made that true.

"Mm," he says. "She gave me the key to the Vault of Heaven."

The laugh that escapes Zoroaster here is somehow disgusted.

"She did a fuck load more than that to you, Count," he says. "Cracked your head open, buried secrets inside it and pushed it back together, ready to be split again when the time came. Leo says she knew somehow that your Uncle would drive you to the Labyrinth, it was all part of hers and your fucking father's great master plan."

"Zo—"

"He deserves to hear this," Zoroaster asserts. "The other you figured it out beforehand; they got inside your head and stuck their claws inside your mind, not realising what they thought was all you was in reality only one of the halves that woman broke apart. The other one was pretending to be Leo in your weird dream-vision thing. He found Sophia, the Book of Leaves—defeated the Labyrinth and the Turks and at the end of it when they were satisfied they had their prize, he was there to keep undermining them, knowing they'd never suspect."

_Cross the sea unseen_ , Riario thinks. _So that's what it means_. Only this had been the Seer's move, and he was only a little black stone on the board.

"—Clarice Orsini found the other you when Carlo tried to take her captive, he managed to explain enough of it to convince her to help in exchange for leading her out of the tunnels. Your dear old dad had obviously figured out what had happened too; they say he's been afraid to go near you since you got back. Leo was fucking furious. I've never seen him like that, never. Not except for when Andrea was..."

He trails off. And he doesn't have to continue, Riario thinks he pretty much understands what the other man is trying to tell him.

It's quite interesting.

"In this world then," he asks, "will I get to stay with the Artista?"

"I doubt he'll let you out of his sight again," says Zo.

Then it's a nice dream, if it is a dream. If it's real then it's not so nice, but ultimately he'd prefer it to the alternative, except for one small thing...

"You mean 'me' me?" he whispers. "Or only the other me? That's the one he wants me to be, isn't it? The one that pretended to be him."

"He pretended to be you once, you know," Zoroaster tells him—in order to deflect the question, he knows that method when he sees it.

It's pretty much an answer in itself.

_Maybe this isn't a dream then,_ he thinks. Maybe he'd only been confused about the truth of what he'd seen, thinking all those other people were dead and he was still alive.

Maybe it's really the other way around.

Maybe he's a ghost. A ghost of someone who only died in spirit, so someone new and better could take his place, only he still haunts that man, and his loved ones, and he can never rest because his body cannot be given Last Rites until it dies.

That makes a certain kind of sense. But he's probably wrong.

"Leo believes in you," says his cousin suddenly, bringing that line of thought to a crashing halt. "He told the other you he intended to save you too, and he meant it. And I didn't know what to think at first, but he believed in me when I didn't and he proved me wrong in that, so maybe _I_ can believe in you too now."

The reason Riario suddenly knows that this is real, is that he knows that sentiment could never, _ever_ have come from his own head.

"Cousin," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

"I know," she says. Zoroaster shifts him in his arms, brushes a lock of hair out of the red tears drying on his face. "I forgive you."

_There is a Sun that rises at the end of the night. There is hope. You must suffer so that he may shine, but he will shine for all; including you._

Everything hurts.

But he chooses to believe in this one thing.

It doesn't feel as empty a belief as before.

 

*~*~*

 

_It's sunset. He can see the tip of the inferno on the horizon. On the other side of the sky, the full moon glows softly in the dusk._

_He smiles._

_Three birds fly over the meadow, one after the other, and as he raises his hand towards them, he notices there is a paintbrush in it._

_There's a canvas on an easel in front of him; the same black and white stark-contrast work he saw before in his notes; which makes him conclude_ he _painted this picture._

_The light in the picture comes from the sun-like halo behind the figure of a woman in elaborate, heavily patterned robes; the folds between the solid black and the solid white (there are a few of these this time) filled like illuminations from a manuscript. Her clothes take up most of the page, and she smiles._

_In front of her; seated, chained, naked in the shadows, is a woman with long black hair holding a crescent moon. She's crying, on the side of her head her one bull's horn adorns. Her other eye is looking at the sun-woman._

_With hope, if he's not reading into this too much._

_"Don't tell me you're still working in this light, Girolamo, you'll ruin your fucking eyes and all."_

_At the sound of his beloved's voice, the Moon turns to see his Sun smirking at him, arms folded and amused for the split second before their eyes meet and his face changes._

_"Oh!" he says—not pleased or disappointed, but cautiously eager—if that's not an impossible thing to be. "It's_ you _. Sorry, I didn't realise. How are you feeling?"_

_He approaches briskly—a familiar black box in his hands. The Moon tilts his head._

_"Fine," he says._

_The sun rolls his eyes. "You always say that," he complains. "And I know you're not fine, but never mind that for now. Did you only just wake up?"_

_Shyly, the Moon nods._

_"Then I guess I can't ask you about the painting. Which is a pity, because I have about five hundred questions about_ his _artistic choices." He sighs. "I really have to teach him how to shade properly one of these days."_

_The Sun sits down next to him and puts his hand on his shoulders._

_"The others will be here in the morning; Zo, Nico—your cousin. Were you thinking of hanging around until then?"_

_"I'll go wherever God sends me."_

_That answer does seem to disappoint his Artista. But the Moon cannot give him everything._

_"Right," says the Sun. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the Moon's. "Well, hopefully He'll let you stay here for a while."_

_Then the Sun lifts his head up again. The light of the heavenly fire on his face reminds the Moon so much of what it's like to hope, it almost begins to hurt._

_He endures it, because he knows it's what the Sun wants, and the Sun says,_

_"Let's see if we can't find a good Book while we wait to find out, eh?"_

_Gently, but firmly, he pulls the Moon down to lay his head in his lap._

_And reads to him, until he falls asleep._

_(wakes up)_

 

*~*~*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An explanation for those of you who understandably cannot parse my gibberish. 
> 
> The idea was that Season 3 was, in its entirety, only Riario's 'resistance' to the Labyrinth and taking place inside his head, as we saw happen with Leo in 3X04. (in-universe that was Riario leaving himself a clue). What the Labyrinth didn't know was that Caterina (using knowledge gained from the Book of Leaves; in reality a hi-tech Kindle-type device sent back in time from a post-apocalyptic future), had programmed Riario as a sleeper agent when he was a child (at which time she also gave him the key to the Vault of Heaven), then erased his memories of having been programmed, and of the location of the Book of Leaves that she'd imparted to him.
> 
> Riario splitting into 'saint' and 'sinner' within the dream-world was also a clue to himself; in reality he had split into what the audience saw as 'Riario' during S3, and what the audience saw as 'Leo'; sacrificing the former personality to the hands of the Labyrinth so that they wouldn't realise the latter personality was still active and working from within to subvert them. (he doesn't think of himself as 'Leonardo' in the waking world, because he's the personality that actually knows what's happening).
> 
> The fic was told from the point of view of the other one, the scapegoat, however; who didn't know what was going on and in his utterly wrecked state from having to shoulder the brunt of the Labyrinth's torture didn't much care--though he had gained the ability to astrally project, and doing that unconsciously is what allowed him to see what the others were doing sometimes. That's basically it, but let me know if you have any questions!


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